Left of Gandhi

Sittin’ to the left of Gandhi Peaceful intentions and all Honolulu Zoo behind me Girls playing volleyball Beautiful ocean Yet, the world burns in more ways than one My wife in the water, with beautiful fish I love it here Yet, the world burns The cardinal I just fed bread is thankful

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February

We only say it correctly when we’re learning to spell it, a hint of brew, this month more soft-spoken than the last, and short – though Valentine roses’ petals fall before ice melts. Oh, some whisper it as a synonym for claustrophobia, closing down or slamming doors so fast that cold lurks abandoned out there where invisibles moan and something smelly hides under the front steps.

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Mother

this humo ludens collaborans has many plans renewing vows supporting plants saving bees down on my knees with every breath we take in oxygen gifts from forests, meadows, mosses & ferns

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The Red Gate

Can you see us through the gate? the Tutelo ask. I sprayed it apple red last winter, aerosol in my lungs. Must be more careful in the time of masks. But the red. The red! You can see it a quarter mile away, walking up the lane. Crooked door opening to a wide mossy bed of poplar and walnut. Shadows bend into each other. Locust limbs rest on the lazy fence. An old wooden coop, emptied years back by the fox, sits where the home place was.

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Without, Within

Tiny round-faced vaquita porpoises, dark-eyed mountain gorillas, intricately striped Sumatran tigers, so many species disappearing under greed’s heavy boots although the loss seems abstract as we stop at Costco for groceries, fill up the car before heading home.

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Last Chance Road

A light rain washes clean the leaves, the green melody of freedom from the city’s nightmares. Time rolls past, fast or slow, no one knows, like the mists that rise up and settle down upon the Smoky Mountains. Days lose their distinctions, their names. Dust, thick and heavy in the sun, embraces the rain like new love refusing to let go and calms the road down, clearing the air, the sky, the pathway love must travel to embrace a new rain.

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Red Chimney

I wonder who lives in the house With the bright red chimney, someone must For on cold winter mornings Smoke bellows from the stack And the smell of freshly baked bread Stops me in the thaw and snap So, I linger for a moment And stare at this dreamy abode Lit by the soft edges of snow clouds And the sun a pale embroidered gold ‘All is well with the world’ then I say to myself All is well in the house with the red chimney

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The Furies

Blast! over the last ridge before pasture. The great white sycamore shatters the oriole’s net-nest. An autumn olive catches the fledgling, embraces its beating heart. Singed by relentless summer, hills west waver/duck at the gale.

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